Eleven Times
by JackFan2
Summary: In the middle of a blizzard, trapped inside the car that has been their home since forever, Dean tries not to bleed to death while Sam staggers to some disturbing realizations.


**Title: Eleven Times**

Characters: Dean, Sam

Timeline: Season 1, after _Faith_ but before _Hell House_

Disclaimer: Do we really have to do these? Fine, if wishes were horses, then beggars would ride, and if wishes were Winchesters then I would ride, but until then…not even a little bit mine.

Thanks to **Natty** (or Ophium here at ffnet) for the cheerleading, the gut-check on tone and character, and just being so very awesome, as usual. :D All errors now, are mine, aaaaaall mine.

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"I said pull the fuck over!"

"Dean, you're bleeding all over the place. The hospital's just…" Sam's voice trailed off in the face of his uncertainty.

Dean knew he looked a mess; bloodshot eyes from too little sleep between this hunt and the one before. The sleepless hours taking care of Sam when he'd come down with the flu in New Mexico. The run-in with Meg and her daevas in Chicago, and their fractious reunion with Dad…

Still, he had to do something before the Impala slid off the road.

Ignoring the pain, the pulling, the cutting of thousands of thick shards of glass, and the rather large one shoved in his right calf, Dean shoved over, arm extended, reaching, he placed a firm but gentle hand on his younger brother's arm and squeezed.

There was no reaction, so Dean spoke, his voice low and even. Just one word, "Sam."

Sam cast a quick glance from the road toward his brother, and did a double take.

"C'mon," Dean continued quietly. "Pull over man."

That did the trick.

Not since right Jessica's death had Dean seen Sam so freaked out. Over the last three months he'd been on edge, hovering, worried to fits of anger, jittery, obstinate. Something was wrong and it had all come to a header when the ghost had tossed Dean through that plate glass window, which lead them here, in the middle of a blinding snow storm in North Dakota.

The impala was already slowing down before Sam moved his gaze back to the near white-out conditions in front of the Impala. The steering wheel gripped tight under white knuckles, Sam gently cut the wheel right, leaning forward, struggling to see, brow furrowed worriedly.

"Let her do all the work," Dean sighed. "She'll find the shoulder for you."

The feel of the tires signaled a change in the road surface and Sam knew a sense of relief as the car came to a complete and gentle stop, on the shoulder. Cutting the engine, he breathed out heavily.

"You know," Dean's voice slurred into the quiet of the car. He shifted, inhaling at the sudden sharp pain, then tried again, "You know what your problem is?"

Sam's fixed gaze turned to look at his bloodied brother. He was once again slumped against the passenger side door and the relief he'd felt, rushed out, replaced with worry and tension. "You mean besides the fact that you're bleeding like a stuck pig and we're stuck in the middle of nowhere where temperatures at night drop well below freezing?"

"Exactly my point." Dean grinned crookedly. "Dude, you worry too much." He reached out a hand and patted the dash endearingly, "She knows how to keep us safe, been doing that for years."

"You're delirious." Sam looked away, a muscle jumping on one side of his jaw. His head tilted down and he added quietly, "… and you're not invincible."

"Maybe," Dean said, mouth screwed up in thought. "But you gotta relax man, I'm not dying here. It's just some cuts—"

"Some cuts?" Sam's voice notched up in disbelief. "Dean, there's at least one six inch piece of plate glass sticking out of your leg, and God knows how many smaller pieces embedded everywhere else. We've far surpassed the 'just some cuts' by a few gallons of blood."

Clearly Sam was in no mood to be placated, and in every way ready to exaggerate; it wasn't _gallons_, more like… a pint or two. Never mind that there's still some oozing out of his various cuts and abrasions. But definitely not gallons.

Only three months outside of Dean's run in with an over-amped tazer, a damaged heart, and fanatical faith-healer's wife who'd found a way to control death, and Sam hadn't once taken his eyes off his big brother. This over protectiveness had to stop or Dean would suffocate from it.

"Well," Dean finally husked out, "it's not like you're without skills Sammy. So you gonna sit there bitchin' all night or you gonna get the first aid kit outta the trunk?"

In the time it took for Sam to launch out of the Impala to grab the med kit from the trunk, and return, the interior temperature of the car plummeted several degrees. The gale force winds thwarted his best efforts to move quickly.

Dean shivered and pulled his leather coat close, the strains of Zeppelins' _Good Times, Bad Times_ ('coz that was just the story of their lives) coursed through his mind as he sought to focus on something other than the pain, the blood, the fall, his brother being strangled…

"Hey."

Dean opened eyes he hadn't realized were closed. Sam's worry-knitted brow, the same one he'd worn for the last three months, slid into view.

"Metallica?" Sam asked, his shoulders tense and set.

"Geeze…" Dean huffed, trying to look less hurt and adjusting himself miserably on the seat. And failing. "Zeppelin, asshat – I swear, thought they taught the classics at that fancy school of yours."

More awake now, Dean got a good look at his brother.

Sam was crouched in the small space of the floorboard, kit and flashlights in hand, a blanket under one arm, staring at him. Just when and how he'd managed all that without Dean noticing, 'coz there was no way Dean would admit that maybe he'd passed out for a while, he didn't know but the way he looked, his gargantuan body folded into that tight space, it was nearly comical.

Dean would've laughed, if it didn't hurt so fucking much.

The 'classics' dig had had little effect and the older Winchester could tell his little brother was just seconds away from trying to drive them outta here again.

"Chill Sam." _Chill?_ Dean smirked then cleared his throat, "It's not like I was humming _Stairway to Heaven_…"

That attempt to calm his brother only managed to make the knot in Sam's brow grow impossibly bigger. More the 'straight shooter' when it came to these things, Dean winced. "Sam."

"Need to keep you warm, so you don't go into shock." The words were so matter-of fact, he wasn't talking to Dean anymore, he was going through some internal checklist. The blanket was spread, Sam mindful of the glass poking out of Dean's right calf.

Sam cleared his throat and busied himself opening the kit and searching for what he needed, "Not sure we got enough here to take care of all this but I am sure it's gonna hurt like a bitch. Want a painkiller before I start?"

Dean eyed the bottle in Sam's hand - 'the good stuff' - and shook his head, "Just Tylenol. Don't wanna get too looped up to where I can't tell you if I'm freezing to death."

After a quick, curt nod, Sam handed him the pills and a bottle of water. Dean's hands shook so badly – from pain or cold, neither were sure – that he had to, much to Dean's embarrassment, help move the water bottle to Dean's lips, but once the pills were away, Sam began the painful task of pulling glass shards from his brother's flesh.

For the most part, Dean reacted very little; he bore it all in his usual stoic silence, save for the clenched jaw and controlled breathing. After a while, though, the constant plucking, digging and disinfecting fried his brain's best attempts to remain quiet.

It was unnerving how quiet Sam was through it all. Usually, the kid couldn't help the constant flow of 'sorry's' and sympathy winces, but Sam didn't so much as glance up at Dean. It was downright unnatural for his over-sized, emo-packing brother.

Dean was shifting now, the deeper pieces of glass not freeing easily from his flesh. There was now a constant litany of expletives, most murmured under his breath, some vocalized aloud, almost hoping Sam would get the hint…

When a deeper shard refused to be trapped in the tweezers, Sam pushed deeper, almost viciously…

"Shit," Dean nearly levitated off the seat. "Fuckin' just… stop!"

But Sam didn't stop, it was like he hadn't heard Dean at all, "Almost got it…" Sam muttered, but when the blood covered shard ducked, Sam dug again.

"Mother of…" Dean launched up and batted Sam's hand out and away from his flesh, he ordered tersely, "Back the hell off. Now!"

After a moment, when Dean felt steadier, when he was sure he wouldn't throw up, when the gray edges of his vision receded back to the gloomy interior of the car; he glanced up at the hard face of his little brother and sighed. "What the… ?"

He knew that look.

Dean forced himself upright a bit more and slumped back against the seat, head pressed against the cool of the window. Eyes closed against one fucker of a headache, "Ok," he lifted one shaky hand to the bridge of his nose and rubbed, attempting to ease the pain, "you got exactly one minute to start talking."

Sam stared back, his face set and defiant, yet vulnerable. Dean knew all he needed to do was wait him out. Talk him down. "C'mon Sammy, spill it. Something's been off with you since Nebraska."

It was a Winchester stalemate. Silence, oppressive and tense filled the car and while Dean's patience was running along the same level as his pain threshold – dwindling quickly - he'd never show his hand. Instead he waited out the beats in between, let the howling wind outside fill the voids, then dump in every now and again.

"Seriously man," Dean prodded, though lightly. "You really going to let me bleed to death here?"

Sam's eyes grew wide with alarm and he lifted the tweezers and bandage, "I shoul—

Stalemate ended.

"No!" Dean's hand shot out, palm faced away and at the same time shrunk back. When Sam stilled, Dean continued calmly, but with force. "No. All you should do is start talking. You don't get to touch me with that… thing 'til you air this out."

The car was quiet once again, heavy with unsaid words, feelings, emotions. Nearly stifling and Dean almost couldn't take it anymore; he opened his mouth to say as much…

"Sam, c'mon—"

"Eleven times" Sam murmured eyes downcast.

Dean canted his head, trying to catch his brother's eyes. "Come again?"

"Did you know that I know exactly how many times you've nearly died since you started hunting?" Sam lifted his gaze, finally looking Dean in the eye. "Eleven times."

It was Dean's turn to look away. The many hunts over the years, the many close calls, too many for him to recount individually. They stretched out before him, longer than the many roads they'd traveled. Together. As a family. Many of them in this very car.

Dean swallowed at Sam's statistical revelation. Mainly, 'cause the numbers were off - _way_ off. The four years when Sam wasn't with him, when it was just him and Dad, then just him. Well, Sam didn't need to know about those…

Their eyes met again and Dean could see that Sam had a pretty good idea that whatever Dean didn't tell him really didn't mean a whole hell of a lot. The kid probably knew anyway.

"It's why I left in the first place, Dean. For Stanford. Sure, I'd always dreamed of going to college, probably never would've done it but ….but when you lay there bleeding, again…the cost of me staying, it was just getting to be too much…"

This was bigger than Dean realized. Sam was on fragile ground and there was no way he would scare the kid off this time. Still, he had to understand the reality of this life. This job. Their lives.

Dean sighed, "Man, the shit you keep in that freaky head of yours." He looked at his brother in all earnestness, "You know there are way better things to think about?"

Sam's eyes were wide and frustrated, "I try Dean, but…" he took a shuttering breath, "You nearly died after that rawhead, and that drive to the hospital and… and here we are again…"

"It's just glass Sam—"

"But you _could_ have died. And when I count on both hands the number of times you _nearly_ died…" Sam choked back a sob before beginning again. "It was too much then Dean and now…" His eyes dropped, breaths struggling out in harsh shuttering exhalations.

It was quiet in the Impala. Save for the sounds of the buffeting winds as the snow storm occasionally shook the sides of the car.

"Hey, any day above ground is a good day." Dean smirked, hoping… but when Sam blanched, Dean's face fell and he grew quiet. A beat went by and Dean put all his big brother tone into his next statement. "You gotta see the positive in this Sam."

Sam choked out a sob of disbelief, "How—"

"Yea, it's a rough life, we get that. And… while I've seen more than my fair share of action, came too close a few too many times— "

"A few?" Sam cut in. Dean's brow arched questioningly. "Don't you get it? Those eleven only account for the time I was around; before Stanford and since you came and got me. It's why I left in the first place."

Dean couldn't have been more stunned. The argument the night before. Dad's harsh reply before the door slammed shut, 'If you walk out there door, don't come back.'

This was the first time Sam had ever really talked about why he'd left. They'd argued one time when Dean had come to visit. That one time was the last time Sam talked to his brother for two years. This was big, and more importantly, this was good.

The four years Sam was gone… those near-misses, those injuries, well, he'd just keep that all to himself. For now, Dean just nodded, slowly, knowing that if this had been the thing that had sent Sam packing, he didn't want to scare the kid off again…

"You know," Dean gave a sympathetic smile, "you know, you're really looking at this all wrong."

Sam's eyes looked so lost when he asked, "How so?"

"Well, by your count I've nearly died those eleven times, right?" Sam nodded mutely, "Way I look at it, I survived those eleven times. I beat the odds." Smug in his logic, Dean crossed his arms and leaned back. When the larger piece of glass in his right leg pulled sharply, his face of superiority drooped some.

"But how long's our luck gonna hold out, Dean?"

"Shiiiit," Dean huffed, "you know us Winchesters. Like Bobby says, if it weren't for bad luck we'd have no luck at all. So, we survive out of sheer will and stubbornness."

A reluctant tilt pulled into a grin and Sam chuckled, "You got the stubbornness part right, in spades."

"See?" Dean pointed out triumphantly. When he wanted to say something else, he quickly looked right. "And my baby , here, can't forget her…" He ran a loving hand over the passenger door. "We survive coz she's always there for us, always will be."

"You know," Sam grinned, "most people get a dog to divert affection on, not a car."

"Well, most people are nuts and they don't know a good thing when they see it."

The car was quiet once more and Dean shifted. The pain that shot up his right leg was so sharp he couldn't help the sudden inhale. "What'd you say Sammy. You ready to get back at it?"

"Oh crap...yea, sorry." Sam bent back to work, his touch urgent but gentle.

Later, when Sam teased, Dean would attribute his last words to the drugs – 'coz no way in hell 'tylenol' would make him that woozy – or the mind numbing cold, or the pain, but he spoke quietly once more as he drifted off… "We survive coz we got each other."

The somberness of that statement wasn't lost on Sam; he looked at his brother suddenly. Their eyes held seconds before Dean's slid closed.

Sam stared, a slow warm smile played at the corners of his mouth, "Glad I got you too big brother."

*END*

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Thank you for reading.


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